The Deep End
When I was three years old my father took me to the community pool to teach me how to swim. His method of instruction involved throwing me into the deep end. From there, it was all on me to figure it out. But I didn’t. My 32 pound body sank like an anchor. The basic mechanics of treading water or floating were never explained. My father expected instinct to kick in. That whatever DNA I possessed of ancient water dwelling beings would propel me to the surface. But I failed my primordial ancestors. All oxygen left my lungs. Dizzy. On the verge of blacking out, I heard whispers beneath me. Summoning me lower. My father rescued me. Afterwards, I asked him how deep the pool was. He told me 12 feet. “No, it’ll keep going down,” I said. “There is no true end to water.” He told me that story a few times as I grew older. He said I’d spooked him good. First with the drowning. Then with my words. * * * I waited until my daughter, Becca, turned five to bring her to the pool. If it’d been fully up to me, I’d never taken her. But my wife, Susan, insisted. She worried that Becca would inherit my fear of deep water if we kept her away from it. I didn’t see that as a negative, but Susan was relentless. She kept proposing all manner of scenarios Becca would find herself in where she’d drown due to her lack of swimming ability. My daughter feared the deep end from the moment she saw it. Like my memory had transferred to her. Her swim teacher tried to ease her into the shallow end. But Becca didn’t trust this stranger standing in the water. She turned to me and asked, “Daddy, if I drown will you jump in and save me?” I hesitated before I assured her I would. But that hesitation spoke a deeper truth. About my own lingering fear. Children can sense these things. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t survive. We left the pool that day without my daughter stepping foot in the water. Susan didn’t hide her disappointment with me. She told our daughter that they’d go swimming together next time. That she’d teach her to swim and not be afraid of the deep end. The week after, Susan and Becca went to the pool without me. Susan called after they’d been gone only an hour. “Don’t panic,” she said. “Becca had a little incident.” “What happened?” I asked. “She fell into the deep end. Soon as we walked out of the locker room, she rushed right to it. She said she heard voices. I don’t know-” “Is she all right?” “She’s fine,” Susan said. “A lifeguard jumped in and got her right away. They said it was weird though. Like they felt something pulling Becca down.” That night, Becca insisted I be there when she took a bath. Normally she loved big warm bubble baths. But that night she didn’t want the water too deep. After her traumatic day, I felt it best to comply. She waited until the tub was filled with bubbles and water, and even then hesitated. “Mom said you heard voices at the pool,” I said. She nodded. “What’d they say?” “Not to be afraid,” Becca said. “That they could show me the true deep. The one without end.” Those words chilled me. They’re not something you expect out of a five year old. And given my own strange drowning experience, they felt especially startling. Susan and I’d agreed to not tell Becca about my drowning as a child. We feared the story would scare her. “You know you just imagined hearing that, right?” I said. But Becca looked at me like she knew I was lying. To her and to myself. “If you say so, Daddy,” she said. Disappointment shown on her face. “If they pull me under though, you’ll come for me?” I smiled. “Sweetie, it’s just a bathtub. There’s not even a foot of water.” “But if they grab me and want to show me the deep, you’ll come get me? Please promise?” “Of course,” I said. “I’ll dive right into the tub and swim after you.” That seemed to satisfy her. She reluctantly walked over to the bathtub and climbed in. It happened before she was even fully in. A force. Something. It pulled her under. I stood in shock. Not fully comprehending what I’d seen. But I remembered my promise. I threw my hands into the water. Frantically searching for where my daughter disappeared to. The water should have only been elbow deep. It wasn’t. I couldn’t feel a bottom to my bathtub. The water kept going down. It didn’t make any sense. But I dove in. There wasn’t time to think. To analyze. To explain how impossible the situation was. It was happening. I kicked and pushed myself downward. It was dark. But I could hear Becca screaming below me. Using up all her oxygen. I moved faster. I reached out and felt her hand. Grasped it. Clutched it. And pulled her back upward with me. But something else was present. And stronger. It pulled her down. The last thing I heard her cry was, “Daddy,” before whatever else was there knocked me away. Forced me to let go of my daughter’s hand. I tried to swim downward again. But I had no breath left. I’d blackout soon, I knew it. But I couldn’t go back without her. Then a small hand held mine. That’s all I remember. * * * I woke up in a hospital room. My wife told me I’d fallen into the bathtub and lost consciousness while Becca was bathing. Becca called out for her mother. She got me out of the tub and dialed an ambulance. It’d only been two hours ago. Susan left to find a nurse. Becca stayed at my side. “I’m glad you’re alright, father,” she said. “You usually call me Daddy,” I said. Becca looked concerned. Like I’d caught her in a lie. “That’s what I said, Daddy.” Since the bathtub incident Becca has acted funny. She’s no longer afraid of the water. The opposite in fact. She’s an incredible swimmer. And she loves nothing more than diving down into the deep end. Staying down for as long as she wants. I’ve caught her whispering to herself while she takes baths. What she’s saying, I can’t tell. Susan thinks it’s just a phase. But sometimes I hear voices in the water talking back to Becca. Most of them, I can’t make out what they’re saying. But one stands out. One calling out for her Daddy.